an open heart, than all the ceremonious politeness that can be exhibited. When there is a genuine disposition to be friendly, to do as we would be done by in similar circumstances, it would be best evidenced by endeavours to make visiters feel at home among us. It is a great mistake to suppose, that hospitality consists in giving sumptuous feasts and making formal calls.

Philadelphians have been spoken of sometimes, as being too cautious and particular, in requiring letters of introduction or some other evidence of a stranger's respectability, before they will admit him to their circle of acquaintance. I do not know that there is any ground for imputing to us an excess in this prudence. It has been of service in preventing pseudo-barons and knavish adventurers from imposing upon us, to the extent they have done in some other quarters; and as long as impostors exist, it will be proper and right to inquire, who a man is, before we give him admission into our families. Is it reasonable for any body to expect, that in a large city, resorted to by individuals of all characters, hospitality will be spontaneously tendered to one whose personal appearance is the only credential of respectability which he presents!

If those who visit us have sometimes just cause of complaint, have not we also, often reason to complain of the conduct of strangers to us? How often has it happened that a letter of introduction has been presented some weeks after the bearer's arrival; and perhaps the very persons who behave thus, cast reflections upon our city. How often have visits to take leave, been the the first intimation received of a stranger's presence. I have known several instances of such unsociableness that were sufficiently provoking. This too is a subject for reformation.

CHAMOMILE TEA.

BY DAVID P. BROWN.

LET doctors, or quacks, prescribe as they may,
Yet none of their nostrums for me;

For I firmly believe-what the old women say-
That there's nothing like chamomile tea.

It strengthens the mind, it enlivens the brain,
It converts all our sorrow to glee;

It heightens our pleasures, it banishes pain—
Then what is like chamomile tea?

In health it is harmless-and, say what you please, One thing is still certain with me,

It suits equally well with every disease;

O, there's nothing like chamomile tea.

In colds or consumptions, I pledge you my word,
Or in chills, or in fevers, d'ye ye see,
There's nothing such speedy relief will afford,
"As a dose of good chamomile tea.

Your famed panacea, spiced rhubarb and stuff,
Which daily and hourly we see,

Crack'd up for all cures, in some newspaper puff,
Can't be puff'd into chamomile tea.

The cancer and colic, the scurvy and gout,
The blues, and all evils d'esprit,

When once fairly lodged, can be only forced out,
By forcing in chamomile tea.

You all know the story how Thetis's son

Was dipp'd to his heel in the sea;
The sea's all a farce-for the way it was done,
He was harden'd by chamomile tea.

Or, if dipp'd in the Styx, as others avow,
Which I also deny, by the powers—

The Styx, it is plain, must in some way or how,
Have been bank'd up with chamomile flowers.

When sentenced to die, foolish Clarence they say,
Met his fate in a butt of Malmsey :

He'd have foiled the crook'd tyrant, and lived to this day, Had he plunged into chamomile tea.

Let misses and madams, in tea-table chat,
Sip their hyson and sprightly bohea;

It may fit them for scandal, or such things as that,
But it's nothing like chamomile tea.

Let tipplers and spendthrifts to taverns resort,
And be soak'd.in their cups cap-a-pie;

Their champaign and tokay, their claret and port,
Are poison to chamomile tea.

Why, the nectar the gods and their goddesses quaff,
In potations convivial and free,

Though Homer mistakes it—nay, pray do not laugh,
I suspect it was chamomile tea.

Then fill up your goblets, and round let them pass,
While the moments and hours they flee;

And let each gallant youth pledge his favourite lass,
In a bumper-of chamomile tea.

THE RAINBOW AND THE CROSS.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

Ir was an afternoon in the month of June I had left the city, and had approached the country as far as the House of Refuge, in Francis' lane.-Opposite the building, is a burying ground. Some one had "set before me an open door;" and I entered the silent but instructive mansion of the dead, to meditate among the tombs, and familiarise myself with scenes in which all must become unconscious participants.

I looked around-the green carpeted earth and swelling herbage told of life; but of a life that depended on seasons and their incidents; and in a few months at best, the breath of the North would sweep away their glories, and desolation would take the place of their beauties. These things told of death in the vegetable world. The hillock by which I stood, was a memento of what had been; while the stifled cough, and the face that disease had blanched white as the monumental stones among which it was, told plainly what was to be in the animal creation. We inhale death with the first inspiration of life, and all our marchings are in the downward path to the tomb, from whose open door the hand of death continually beckons the contemplative, while pleasure smooths down the track for the thoughtless and the gay.

Hillock after hillock told of the long abiding place of beings, who had once gone forth among their fellows in

the pride of health and the boast of friendship. Their agile limbs had stiffened; the manly sinews had shrunk; the bright eye had become dim; beauty and strength had departed, and those who had once loved them, had hastened to bury the dead out of their sight. They had heaped up the earth, and erected stones in memorial of life-perhaps of virtue and of friendship; but the earth was gathering back its imparted dust; and that which had once stood out upon earth, and talked of life, and rights, and liberty -which had claimed affinity with spirit, and had measured the path of the sun-" numbered the stars, and called them all by name;" had passed away from such eminences, shrunk into the narrow grave, and was becoming one with the parts, and with the fellow occupants, of its long home.

Stepping up upon one of the newly sodded graves, I leaned over the headstone to contemplate the scenery, and thereby mellow the feelings into that melancholy richness that constitutes the enjoyment of those whose. afflictions have not indurated their affections. It is good for the dying to stand up among the dead, and discourse of death; it is profitable, among the wasted glasses of life, to court the few remaining sands that are running for us, and think how soon, and for what, the wheel will be broken at the cistern-and why it yet turns. The heart beats the breast dilates, and the limbs move, these are the machineries of life-does their busy function keep alive that spirit which is only found where those functions are? or does the spirit-that unseen portion-give motion and activity to the frame. Is one the effect of an independent cause, or are both dependent. If the latter, on what a store house do we stand!--the depository of priceless wealth, that shall not leave its treasury.

Where is the Token of the Promise, that the Slum